


how did i get here sitting next to you? (my friends are heathens, take it slow)

by RavensandWritingDesks2714



Series: M9 Meet-Weird [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Blood and Injury, But I also can't think of anything else, But here have more warnings anyway, Canon Temporary Character Death, Damn those three tags alone, Did I mention angst, Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I feel like I need to put more warnings on here, I'm Sorry, It's me I'm the unreliable one not Yasha, Murder, Obann is a warning all on his own, Other, Physical Abuse, Seriously guys this is peak unhealthy power dynamics here, Sort Of, Stream of Consciousness, Temporary Character Death, There that's another important one, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unreliable Narrator, Why Did I Write This?, canon character death, descriptions of injuries, unhealthy thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavensandWritingDesks2714/pseuds/RavensandWritingDesks2714
Summary: Yasha isn't entirely sure how it started.Or,Yasha's time with Obann.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett & Yasha, Jourrael | The Inevitable End & The Laughing Hand & Yasha, Jourrael | The Inevitable End & Yasha, Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha, Obann & Yasha (Critical Role), The Laughing Hand & Yasha (Critical Role), The Mighty Nein & Yasha
Series: M9 Meet-Weird [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771675
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	how did i get here sitting next to you? (my friends are heathens, take it slow)

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the M9 Meet Weird AU verse. Technically, I could have also put it in with Relief and Understanding, but it was more in line with the modern AU canon that I've set up, so that's where it is. 
> 
> Also, do be warned this one is pretty dark and deals with abuse and abusive relationships. This is rated Mature accordingly, and though I tried not to be too explicit or graphic and handle everything respectfully, it is still intense. 
> 
> \- Raven

Yasha isn’t entirely certain how it started.

“And when did you plan on telling me about this?”

She’s standing in Obann’s kitchen, and he’s got his hands gripping the edges of the counter so tightly that his blood-black nail polish stands out all the more.

(She used to like that color. Now it just makes her sick.)

“I didn’t think it would be that big a deal,” Yasha tries.

She can’t look at him.

He’s so _angry_. Not like her anger, where it burns cold and clarity and focus through her. His anger is….

“Not that big a deal?” he snaps. His hand comes down over top of the pamphlet she’d left out from the night before, and she flinches. “Look at me, Yasha.”

(She hates how he says her name.)

She looks at him anyway, dragging her eyes up slowly to meet the fire burning in his own. She has to remind herself that the counter is still there, between them. That he’s just upset, and that he would never actually hurt her.

(She’s not so sure of that, anymore.)

“You thought you could just go away to some fancy university without telling me and that it wouldn’t be a ‘big deal’?”

Shit, he’s so angry. She should have been more careful. Should have packed it up in her bag like she’d thought. Or at least _looked_ at the counter when she came downstairs. Or—

“What am I going to do with you?”

 _Fuck_ , he’s not behind the counter anymore. When did he move?

“Obann,” she tries, and her voice is a weak croak.

He brings his hand up, and she jerks back on instinct. His fingers catch her jaw, gripping tight and keeping her there, and his eyes are impossible to read but his teeth grit hard enough that she imagines she can almost _hear_ it.

“You know I want what’s best for you,” he says, and she would nod except his grip is too strong for even that.

“Of course,” she whispers, closing her eyes to avoid his gaze.

“Then why would you even think about doing something like this on your own?”

He’s right. Of course he is. She hadn’t been thinking at all.

“You’re right,” Yasha says, eyes opening to meet his once more. “You’re right…it was stupid of me.”

“You were,” Obann agrees, letting go of her chin. “But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

She doesn’t bring up going to university again. But, a few weeks later, Obann tells her that he’s enrolled her in some classes at the local community college.

“That way,” he says. “You’ll be close enough that I can help out if you need anything, and keep an eye on you.”

How generous, she thinks but does not say.

“Thank you,” is what comes out of her mouth instead.

* * *

Obann is hard to hate. When he’s like this, excited and eager about his plans for territory.

“Everything is all in place,” he says, and his eyes are bright and his grin is so soft in that special grin just for her, his hands gentle as they cup the sides of her face and bring her in for a kiss. “Jourrael and The Hand are all in place…I just need you, my lieutenant.”

She laughs against his lips, catching on with enthusiasm despite the knowledge of what they did sinking low in her gut.

“When do we leave?”

“Right now.”

* * *

The gang, when they are all together like this, consists only of Obann, Jourrael, Yasha, and a hulking, brutish man known only as The Hand. When he smiles, it seems to tear open his face, the wrinkles and scars in his features splitting in grotesque, mirror-smiles. (When he laughs, it’s enough to give anyone nightmares.)

Jourrael is quick, and silent as a shadow. She can track anything and anyone that Obann wants. If she’s after you, it’s because Obann wants you dead, and you won’t have time to wonder when or why or how. You will already be dead before you even learn her name.

And Yasha.

Well, Yasha is Obann’s favorite.

She still does not know why. She thinks it’s because she is quiet, and doesn’t argue with Obann like Jourrael does. (She thinks it’s because she is angry.)

The Hand is laughing now, and Yasha comes back to herself enough to realize it’s because Jourrael has found their target. He is spindly looking man, older, but not quite grandfatherly yet. He’s wearing an odd uniform, and Yasha realizes with a start that the emblem on the front is similar to one she has seen Beau wear once or twice. She wonders if he knows Beau, if he knows _Yasha_. If he knows what she does.

The Hand continues to laugh, low and raspy and echoing in the dark, cramped space of the alley, until it sounds as though there are multiple Hands; multiple mouths spilling out this cackle of death. The man, for his part, continues to stand his ground.

Until Jourrael pulls out her knife.

“Now, now,” Obann says softly, placing his hand on Jourrael’s as if to calm her.

Yasha can see the look in his eyes though, and knows that he’s more likely to let Jourrael have this man if he doesn’t provide what Obann wants.

“We just came to talk,” Obann continues.

The man spits at their feet, and Yasha admires him all the more, for all that he will be dead in a few moments.

“I have nothing to say to the likes of you,” the man hisses.

Obann clicks his tongue in mock sympathy, and Jourrael has her knife buried in his knee in a second. The man screams, but her arm is around his mouth and so he shouts into her bicep instead. Yasha can see the moment the fight kicks into the man’s eyes, as he bites down hard on the muscle blocking his face, and Jourrael reels away in pain.

(Not before twisting her knife, though. Because that’s just what she does.)

“Foolish of you,” Obann says softly, as The Hand steps forward in Jourrael’s place and restrains the man much more effectively. “We just wanted information, but now. Well.”

Yasha feels the dread sink into her stomach even before Obann says her name. She steps forward, and there must be something about her because the man goes pale in The Hands grasp and pants desperately with fear.

“You’re a scholar, aren’t you?” Obann says thoughtfully, blood-black nails tapping against his chin. “It must be hard to read books without your hands. Wouldn’t you think, Yasha?”

She wishes she could say she doesn’t know what he is asking of her. (She does. She knows.) She can’t bring herself to do it, though. Not with the way the man is looking at her, like he knows she’s in as much of a situation as he is, and accepts her for it nonetheless. Like he’s _forgiven_ her.

‘’I—.”

She can’t even say that she _can’t._ That she won’t.

Obann gives her a dark look, and The Hand snaps the man’s fingers one by one, until he gives up the information that they need. Jourrael’s blade is through his heart before he even slumps to the ground. And then they all turn, and go back to Obann’s.

* * *

“Give me your hand,” Obann says to her, when they all get through the door.

They’re in the living room, and Jourrael is cleaning her blade and eyeing Yasha with an odd sort of disdain, and The Hand chuckles from the kitchen behind her. She can’t bring herself to meet Obann’s eyes. She screwed up today, she knows it. He’s right to be furious with her, they’re all right to hate her in this moment. But she still trembles. Still hesitates in the face of Obann’s quiet fury.

“I won’t say it again,” Obann whispers.

She steps forward, and places her hand in his outstretched palm. There is silence, and she can’t breathe, doesn’t want to breathe if it means that he will stop being angry with her. She risks looking up and if anything, he looks almost sad; like he’s regretting her screw up just as much as Yasha is.

There’s a sharp twist-jerk that his hand does, and suddenly Yasha is on her knees.

She doesn’t understand for a second, and then the pain hits and she realizes, as she gasps and tries to choke back a scream, that he’s broken her wrist.

* * *

Jourrael splints it for her.

The Hand comes back to the kitchen with ice.

Obann holds the ice to her wrist and strokes the hair from Yasha’s clammy face with his free hand.

“I broke your wrist,” he says slowly, calmly. “And I’m sorry about that. But what you’re doing isn’t fair.”

 _What_ I’m _doing?_ she thinks. _What am I doing? Why am I here?_

“This self-sabotage thing that you’re doing,” Obann continues softly, a pained expression slipping onto his face. “It’s not fair, Yasha, and is entirely selfish. Your actions don’t just affect you, and they _do_ have consequences. Do you understand?”

He squeezes the ice a little too tight and her wrist throbs.

“I understand.”

* * *

Somehow, she makes it back to her group. _Her_ group.

She slips into Molly’s apartment in the middle of the night, and he takes one look at the state she’s in and flops back down onto his bed.

“I’m too sober for this,” he declares.

He gets them both something to drink, and then splints Yasha’s wrist a bit more properly, and she doesn’t want to know how he knows how to do that, and is grateful when he doesn’t offer the information.

“Is this a ‘we need to talk about this’ sort of thing or a ‘can I stay here tonight’ sort of thing?” he asks.

Both. But no, because she can’t betray Obann like that, not again.

Neither. Because she left without telling Obann where she was going, and he worried about her when she left and he didn’t know about it.

“Yash?”

“Can…can I stay with you, tonight?” her voice is barely more than a whisper, and guilt churns through her stomach in time with the throbbing of her wrist, and Molly’s face softens like he knows all of her thoughts and more.

“Of course.”

They go to bed, and for at least this night, Yasha lets herself forget.

* * *

It’s harder to forget in the morning. In the morning, Molly insists on taking her to the diner, and he texts the group while he drives them both there, and so Yasha is greeted with all of them at once. They are all so _worried_ , and she doesn’t deserve their worry.

They are angry, and she thinks she can stomach that much better.

“Where have you been?” Jester says, hair whipping furiously as she darts forward to hug her. “We’ve been worried sick about you!”

“You never call, you never write,” Beau says. She tries for sarcastic, but with the way she won’t meet Yasha’s eyes it just comes out bitter.

“We uh…thought you did not want to see us anymore,” Caleb says, clasping his hand firmly over Beau’s shoulder and squeezing.

Yasha thinks at first it’s in admonishment, but with the way Beau seems to relax under his hand, she realizes she has absolutely no idea how to fit in with the dynamic of the group anymore.

“I uh…” _should go_ — is on the edge of her lips, and then she glances out of the diner window and sees Jourrael across the street, watching her.

“Have to go.”

Yasha leaves before any of the others can try to stop her. (She leaves before she can find out if they do.)

* * *

Jourrael grins at her from her perch on the back of the couch, and she looks so much like Beau; the way she always perches on the furniture when she get excited, that it hurts.

“What the hell were you thinking, leaving like that?” Obann hisses, and she spins sharply to meet him to avoid being caught off guard.

He’s angry about that, if the furrow of his brow is any indication, but her heart’s already pounding enough fear through her.

“I was just…”

“Visiting a friend?” he finishes for her, face twisting with mockery. “Honestly, Yasha, it’s like you don’t think at all about how this makes us feel. How it makes _me_ feel!”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and behind her, Jourrael scoffs through her teeth.

“You know they’re just going to hurt you, in the end, right?” Obann says, and something sparks through Yasha’s gut.

“They are not the ones who broke my wrist.”

She earns herself several new bruises for that, plus Jourrael watching her every move for a week. She’s not allowed to go anywhere without either Obann or Jourrael with her, and since being part of a recognized criminal organization does nothing for subtlety, she can’t even go to her classes, either. She tries to broadcast her music from home, once. Obann breaks her laptop. (She’s grateful it’s just the laptop he breaks and not another bone.)

After a week of being grounded, he lets her leave the house. Not in so many words. But Jourrael stops loitering and smirking at her, and so Yasha considers things settled. It’s solidified when Obann apologizes and buys her a new laptop. He’d even saved her hard drive and helps her recover her files on her new one. It doesn’t occur to her that he may have gone through it until she realizes that all of her pictures of her group are gone.

* * *

It’s been months.

She’s starting to forget what they look like.

Obann is working on something big. Even Jourrael is restless, anxious in the way that means someone is going to get hurt. And by get hurt, she means die.

A church.

That’s the final destination. Yasha thinks it bitterly ironic, that after all that she has been drained for her faith, it is a church she is being dragged back to now. The cold of the blade in her hands steadies her, grounds her past the dull throbbing of her body, the near relentless pain from…she doesn’t even know, anymore. She is _tired_. So tired.

But Obann says come, and so, she does.

Obann says look, and she does.

Obann says kill, and she does.

She has her hands buried in something warm, no…something _hot_. It is hot and sticky and tastes like iron, and she digs her hands and her blade further into it because Obann said to kill and so she does.

There is salt on her tongue.

There is iron in her lungs.

There is a fire, cold and determined and numbing in her gut.

There is a shriek. A _scream_. Primal. Visceral.

Beneath her, from the thing she is carving into so slowly. From _around_ her, from…from figures that blur before her eyes when she looks up at them.

Obann said to kill…so she…

She looks down.

Iron.

Salt.

Fire.

cobalt.

_Beau._

Yasha reels back, taking her blade and a significant portion of Beau with her. The younger woman crumples at her feet, sputtering in agony and no, no this isn’t right this isn’t what was supposed to happen! Obann said…where is Obann?! He needs to be here, he needs to make this right, he…he told her. He told her that this would make things _right_!

“ss….” Beau pants, and Yasha drops to her knees and buries her hands in the iron once more, desperate to put it to right. Beau screams without sound, and something throbs against Yasha’s hand and no no no _please no!_

“ss….a…..ash….” Beau tries again, and no not again please she can’t lose another please no.

“sss…it’s….al….right” Beau says.

She doesn’t say anything else, after that.

*


End file.
